Novel Ideasnby Thomas McGoniglenEvery Man a Kingnby Bill KauffmannNew York: Soho Press;n229 pp., $17.95nThe Twenty-seventh Citynby Jonathan FranzennNew York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux;n517 pp., $19.95nEmperor of the Airnby Ethan CaninnNew York: Harper & Row;n179 pp., $7.95 (paper)nGeek Lovenby Katherine DunnnNew York: Alfred A. Knopf;n348 pp., $18.95nNniinigger” is the word upon whichnBill Kauffman balances andndances his first novel, Every Man anKing. It is, to say the very least, andifficult word. It is a word denied tonwhite lips in polite society, and is nownheard only coming with any frequencynfrom trash-mOuthed blacks.nThe saying of the forbidden word onna television show by Kauffrnan’s centralncharacter requires his banishmentnfrom Washington and precludes anynpolitical future. How easy it is to becomena nonperson in the UnitednStates.nEvery Man a King is satire. In thenfirst third or so of the book the victimsnbelong to the new Conservative Coalition.nThe hero (like Kauffrnan) is anpopulist agrarian conservative with littlenpatience for New York parochials. Indo not know what someone who doesnnot share this viewpoint would makenof it:nIn vain might the curious visitorn[to the think tank where thencentral character works] searchnfor evidence of the Mugwumpnconservatism of Henry Adams,nthe gallant localist conservatismnof Jefferson Davis, the rumbustiousnanarchist conserva­n34/CHRONICLESnREVIEWSntism of John Dos Passos, or anynof a thousand brilliant andnsingular mutations. ThenAmerican Foundation, itsnpatrons and clients (includingnthe scurrying ants of 1600nPennsylvania Avenue) innlockstep, held to a peculiar andnastringent doctrine admixingnunstinting loyalty to big businessnwith a perfervid enthusiasm fornall things military. The resultingnalloy they called “conservatism,”nand on its behalf they sacrificednforests of paper and covens ofnsmiling senior fellows, all tonquench the unquenchablenappetite of the Goddess Media.nHaving uttered the unmentionable,nJohn Huey returns to his hometown,nBatavia, in Upstate New York. He takesnup with a woman from the lower ordersnand we are given to understand thatnsuch people are noble in some way. Hencalls up the memory of his grandfather,nwho was a member of Huey Long’snShare the Wealth Club (and thus thentitle of the book). My main problemnwith the book is I think that populistnutopianism can be as offensive as leftistnor rightist utopianism, and there arenlimits to revisionist ideas, in spite of thencertain pleasure I had watchingnKauffrnan get a dig in once in a whilenagainst Roosevelt and gang.nA conservative reader might nod hisnor her head, glad that the book isnaround but knowing in the heart ofnhearts it will not matter much. Andnwhile I’ll nod my head and murmurnapproval at the slings and arrowsnKauffrnan slugs at the big city and thenblurb manufacturers, go ahead andnquote me as writing: Every Man a Kingnis a funny, delicious political dashnagainst the well-known suspects.nThe Twenty-seventh City, on thenother hand, is more a long proposal forna film than an actual novel. Its editornhas asserted in an interview that henactually did read it, but he never getsnaround to saying exactly what made it,nin his words, “an impressive and challengingnbook.” I am sure they cannwheel in the dying horse: a literarynnovel that makes use of the thrillernnnpackage, this time set in St. Louis andninvolving the appointment of a womannfrom India as the police chief. Ofncourse there is sex and some sort ofnconspiracy. The engine of plot chugsnon for pages. If you have read Ludlum,nMichener, or any of the other worthiesnfrom the best-seller list then you havenalready read The Twenty-seventh City.nThe function of this novel is to passntime. Never have so many been innneed of this sort of drug, to pass anmental kidney stone. Why don’t theyn• just watch television?nThe Emperor of the Air has beenngarlanded with praise. We all know thatnthe author is studying in Boston to be andoctor. One hopes that he will be anbetter doctor than his stories predict. Inwould not seek him out to treat anynailment. He would commit surgery toncure a mosquito bite.nIf there is something still callednmagazine verse, the Emperor of the Airnwould pass as the equivalent of magazinenfiction. Pretension and pretentiousnare the brackets. You pay yournmoney and you better get inspired.nThe characters in these stories arenalways sensitive; their problems arenalways significant. They always meannsomething, but their depth goes nondeeper than a greeting card. The charactersnare so illusive, so uplifting that tonthis reader they are like eating toonmuch baklava: headache, teeth coated,nand why did I do this again, when I donknow better. Some evidence:nWhen I thought of this and thenwoman I was sad. It seemednyou could never really knownanother person. I felt alone innthe world, in the way thatnmakes me aware of sound aridntemperature, as if I had just leftna movie theatre and steppedninto an alley where a light rainnwas falling, and the wind wasncool, and, from somewhere,nother people’s voices could benheard.n”Don’t just watch,” he said.n”See.” I looked. The ice plantnwas watery-Jooking and fat andnat the edges of my vision In